


My Lover Fair With Lovely Hair

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [19]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Combing, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Hair, M/M, Morning Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>...wherein they're not always happy about it.  Combing, cuddling, bad hair days and quite the long list of cross-cultural misunderstandings (and inconvenient Dwarf parents)!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mahal’s balls.

Wake up. Hands in hair. Combing, always bloody combing. Fucking Elf.

  
[Wish you were fucking Elf.]  
[But Elf…loud.]  
[Elf uninhibited.]  
[No fucking for us, then. Not here. Not under ‘Adad and ‘Amad’s roof!]  
[Not in bloody Erebor. Not in bloody Mirkwood or all of Rhohavion.]  
[Don’t need every Dwarf (and Elf!) within earshot knowing the things he says in bed!]

“Elf, stop,” I tell him. “Sleeping.”

But the stupid, sodding Elf keeps combing.

“Mahal-damnit, Elf, I’m sleeping!”

“Then sleep—I do no pretend to understand it—but you have been sleeping for hours while I have combed you and it has not hindered you," he tells me.

“It bloody fucking woke me,” I growl. Hide my head under pillow and blanket alike. No avail. The stupid creature follows me under covers, feel his strange, hairless skin next to me.

“It bloody fucking did not,” my Elf pouts. Oh, ho! Cursing now, are we? This is interesting!

[To say the least.]  
[Bad influence. Poor Elf.]  
[But if he was always bound to learn some things from me.]

“If you have awoken it is no fault of mine. The sun is up, birds are singing, the stars have gone silent, and your Dwarves are busy with their hammers and mining and whatever it is your Dwarves do. Also Amad is cooking breakfast,” he sniffs. “Combing is gentle.”

“‘Amad, Elf,” I grunt. “How many times?”

“Hamad,” he insists, fingers still pressing gently through my hair and beard, leaving it even more a mess in his wake.

[If I didn't know better, I'd say the Mahal-damned creature did it on purpose. Combing? On a Firebeard's curls? It only creates more Mahal-damned work!]

“That’s what I said," my Elf flushes.

“ _‘Amad,_ ” I emphasize, waving his bloody hands away.

“Chamad, then,” he tries, fingers finding the edges of my fraying braids and combing me anew.

[Poor Elf.]  
[One with such a pretty mouth and pretty pink tongue couldn’t hope to speak the Tongue of the Maker.]

“Close enough," I grunt. "Now enough bloody combing, Elf,” I tell him. Poor Elf. Pretty, ridiculous Elf. Doesn’t know how to talk, doesn’t know how to fuck, doesn’t have the words to ask me, don’t have the nerve, the heart to tell him. His bloody, fucking combing makes me Mahal-damned hard, hard as the Maker’s hammer itself!

…and there will be no fucking. Not in this bed. Not in this house. Or Mountain.

[Or anywhere near it!]

Figure his poor (tight, hot!) arse could use the rest. But Elf is…Elf. And Elves bloody, fucking comb. Comb under starlight, comb under sunlight, comb when and wherever it Mahal-damned pleases them. Never not combing (or singing!), as far as I’m concerned. It is strange to think—for him, at least—it is as intimate, better, even perhaps, than fucking—and yet he will comb me at any time. While riding, while eating, while fucking—while conversing with ‘Amad and ‘Adad! In the court of the Stonehelm! Have to smack his Mahal-damned hands away! Crush his pretty toes with my heel! Bloody, fucking, ridiculous Elf will unbraid me and comb in public and thinks nothing of it!

I roll over. Steal my beard back from his prying hands. Try to get some sleep.

But sure enough he wriggles under the covers. Smooth and sleek as a snake he finds his way next to me, slithers his slender fingers up to comb anew. “Mahal-damnit, Elf, I said no combing!”

“But my Gimli,” he pouts. “You are Uncombed!”

[Uncombed? Aye.]

[And you, my Elf, are only bloody making it worse!]

“Aye, and sleeping. What of it?”

“I—I do not like to see you Uncombed,” he cuddles next to me, lays his face against my shoulder.

“Then revel, you Mahal-damned creature, and let those of us who sleep, sleep!”

“But—“

“Just close your Mahal-damned eyes,” I gripe. “Or roll away. If it bothers you so, don’t look!”

“But my Gimli—“

I sigh. Sit up. “What, you ridiculous creature?”

“I would _know_ ,” he insists, his pert lips frowning. “I would still know you were Uncombed.”

“Bloody, fucking…” I take his hand. Try to explain.

[Alright, lie, Mahal-damnit.]

“No one will see," I say. "No one need ever know. And I, for one, don’t even bloody care. No one here will think any less of you if you stop fucking combing me and let me get some Mahal-damned sleep.”

[Mahal knows there will be no rest for me—or my cock—until he leaves me alone!]

“But you shouldn’t be Uncombed,” he says, nearly whines. “Not unless—“

“Unless what, you stupid, sodding Elf?” I sigh.

“Unless you are—we—we could—“

“What, Elf?”

“I—you—my Gimli, it has been so long—I do not understand—you said—you do not wish—“ he stops. Bites his lip. Turns those blue eyes downcast.

“Wish what, you bloody, fucking Elf?” I say. To fuck you? Turn you over, hold your hair, bury my cock in your pretty arse and pound against you like a hammer against an anvil? Pull you down by your pretty hair, put myself in your mouth, hold your ears, flick, pinch, twist, caress them as you suck me off? Lay back under you, let you pull me up into you, let you ride me like a Mahal-damned horse? Even crouch or kneel, take you in my mouth or arse, let you come inside me? Of course! As you would very well know if those clever hands reached any further under my beard, but they do not. Have never—not unless I have invited them, instructed them.

We are...different. He and I. Elf is obsessed with hair. Beard. Ears.

…and combing. Bloody. Fucking. Combing.

“To comb you?” I ask him sharply, “is that what you’re wanting?” Comb him? Why the bloody fuck did I offer that? But his ears—his beautiful, pointed ears!—perk up, flush pink at the sound, the very thought, and those eyes widen, hopeful, smiling…

[Mahal-damnit.]  
[Want to sleep.]  
[Want to _fuck_.]

Oh, in truth it is not a task, not a chore, his hair is long but it is so soft and fine, takes no time at all…but touching him, touching ears—? Having to listen to the soft sighs and moans from that pretty mouth even if I comb him out quickly? As if my Mahal-damned balls weren’t blue enough already!

“Very well, I’ll bloody, fucking comb you, Elf,” I grit my teeth and take his golden hair into my hands. “But then you must promise to revel and let this Dwarf get some sleep!”

[And a wank!]


	2. Chapter 2

Mahal-damnit.

‘Amad spying. Hovering around outside our door. Oh, ‘cleaning up’ she will call it, or ‘cooking’ or whatever excuse she can make, but it’s bloody espionage, that’s what.

Elf undressed. Sprawled on bed. Still reveling. I throw a blanket over his bare arse

  
[Mahal-damnit. His bare arse!]  
[Must he sleep naked—?!]  
[…not that you have complained before.]

and open the door.

I would say—should say—I’ve missed this sight. Her bright brown eyes like variegated onyx, strong shoulders, her freckled Firebeard skin and her long, braided hair and bushy beard in all their glory, the seven beads of iron and colored clay that ‘Adad gave her on their wedding day when they were too poor to afford anything else, and the seven times seven of gold and ruby he gave her the day we arrived in Erebor, glistening against the red of her beard. But not today. Today ‘Amad not happy. ’Amad frowning.

[‘Adad, it must be said, has made it a point to be absent as much as possible.]

…Fuck.

And I know—bloody fucking hell, I know—I could have written, could have told them, warned them, let them know I’d be bringing home my One.

[Bringing home my _Elf_.]  
[Or _any Elf_ , for that matter.]

But Durin’s balls, how are you supposed to put that in writing? ‘Dear ‘Amad and ‘Adad, It is with joy I write to inform you that 1) your Inûdoy is alive 2) the Enemy is defeated and 3) by the way, I fucked an Elf and might have inadvertently married him. Best, Your Son.’

So instead of good mornings or clasping heads in greeting there is only silence. The sort of awkward silence we had in Lórien before the two of us could, well—understand.

  
[As it were.]

Instead I sit. Still in silence, aside from ‘Amad’s sighing. Eggs, hash, sausages, porridge, some fresh bread from the fiery hearths deep in Erebor, crust thick, cracked, and still steaming. We’re Dwarves, afterall, not Hobbits. The Bakers bake, as is their skill and wont. Why should the rest of us bother with it?

[Which is also why so many road meals consist of Mahal-damned cram.]

“Well?” ‘Amad insists.  
“Well, what?” I growl around a fistful of bread.  
“Your—Elf,” she says, “will not be joining us?” with a look that conveys her rather pointed ‘again’.  
“He’s…sleeping.”  
“I see,” she sniffs. “And I suppose when he wakes he ‘won’t be hungry.’”

I grunt. Wash it down with a long draught of ale. It’s not that her food isn’t good enough for him, it’s just—

Elf is Elf. Can’t eat any meat unless he or another Elf has killed it kindly. Has to eat bread if it’s offered. Eats Mahal-damned simple foods like raw birds eggs, fallen nuts, fruits and berries, seen the Mahal-damned creature suck down worms and all manners of crawling creatures that a starving Dwarf wouldn’t touch! He doesn’t plant, doesn’t harvest, and for being called ‘weed-eater’ eats an astounding amount of meat! Goose, duck, rabbit, deer—even Mahal-damned squirrel!

  
[Only thing he won’t eat are those Mahal-damned Mirkwood spiders.]  
[…and the less said on the matter, the better.]

And the cuts he’ll eat! Even in Ered Luin I've known Longbeards who’d turn their noses up to sweetbreads and offal! Not my Elf. Flesh, tendon, gristle or bone, entrails or marrow, my Elf will eat it all! Not a piece goes to waste!

Fishes with hands and bow, no net or tackle, lays no traps. Thranduiling he may be, but my Elf is a Wood-Elf, and they are simple folk. How to explain that to ‘Amad? That her simple fare isn’t too “simple” for royal Princeling tastes, too “bloody” for a Mahal-damned weed-eater, or too “Dwarven” for the get of Thranduil but rather far too _complex_ for his liking?

Oh, there are the exceptions, of course. Elf appreciates a good spiced wine.

  
[It is, he admits, their one weakness.]  
[Wood-Elves don’t grow, don’t plant, don’t harvest except for two things: the grain for lembas (and then only the women!)…and grapes for wine.]

He will drink beer or ale or even mead if I make him. But spice—or salt—on food? It is too, well…too bloody “Sindar” for his tastes.

[And yet you wonder, my love, why your father disapproves when you yourself are so disgusted by him.]

And to have someone else kill or make his food entirely, when it is not a communal feast or celebration and he has not contributed—?

…well, that is far, far too “Noldor” for his liking!

And then there’s the fact that their men cook. Oh, an Elf of any sex can hunt, of course. But the men (Mahal help us, why?) the men prepare the food. I took it—as I know all of bloody, fucking Erebor will take it—as a sign of weakness, waiting on, submissiveness…but all that time on the road hunting, gutting, cleaning, cooking, Elf wasn’t playing the part of a ‘wife’.

[I was.]

“And what, Inûdoy, has that Elf done to your hair?” she glares at my flat, unbraided locks in disapproval. “Are a Dwarf’s curls so unseemly he must rid you of them? Can he not be bothered to braid you? Bead you?”

Braid me? Bead me? And where and when, ‘Amad, would a Wood-Elf learn to forge? “We’ve been on the road, ‘Amad,” I say instead. “No time.”

No time, indeed! All night he has combed me, and the tight, springy coils of a Firebeard’s hair have gone limp beneath his touch. I may be—what is his bloody word for it, Combed?—in his eyes, but to ‘Amad (and any Dwarrow, really) I am unbraided, and my hair is unkept.

  
[Although the braiding is my fault.]  
[Combed him out, sent him reveling so I could get some sleep.]  
[And see to certain needs.]

  
But flat, sleek hair is the only thing he knows. And combing—his Mahal-damned combing!—is so obviously his delight. Rather give up fucking that Elven arse than make him give up his bloody Combing.

  
[Even if my Mahal-damned beard is falling out.]


	3. Chapter 3

I—what?

I wake alone. My Gimli is not here with me. I—I thought that after last night—after Combing—that surely, surely he would not leave me? To wake alone? Without him? He has not done this before! Certainly I have woken to his—combing himself—or ‘can a Dwarf not take a Mahal-damned piss’, but he never has left my sight!

To revel is not to sleep. It is—forgive me, my love—frightening to wake alone. To not know if I am still dreaming or remembering. But this is, it must be, your home, your bed, it smells of you, of your sweat, the oils of your skin and hands, the sheets still hold your breath.

And I think—cannot help but think—that one day it will always be thus.

[I will wake alone.]  
[You will not be here beside me.]

And it sounds—it feels!—like the cry of gulls.

“Gimli?” I try to whisper, to sing. Perhaps he has only woken to, to ‘just take a shit, for fuck’s sake’s!’ and he will be back. He didn’t mean to leave me. He will not be gone long. Of course not! He is my Dwarf, my Earthenstar, my Seven Stars. He would never leave me!

[Until he must.]

“My Gimli?” I ask again. Don’t dare look. Don’t dare search for him. I will not leave this bed—his bed—the smell of his sweat and breath, the strands of his hair and beard he has left behind. He will be back, I know he will be back. I am an Elf. I am patient. I can wait.

[I have forever.]

…he does not.

[We do not.]

And this—this time? he calls it?—it bleeds into itself. I am an Elf. I count spinning seasons and the slow growth of trees. How long have I lain here, in the dark, alone? Where is my love? Has it been moments since he left me, or an age? Will he return to me, will I see him again? Why and how, my love, have I come to be laying in our bed—your bed—alone?

[And why, my love, why.]  
[Why do the white gulls call.]  
[I hear them even now.]

I cannot lay here. Not any longer. Not knowing. Wondering. Fearing. I must know. I must know now if this is real, this moment, or if it is only memory. I must know if…

[…if you are gone.]

“Gimli?” I ask. “Gimli—?” And here are your things, my Seven Stars. Strewn around the room where you have left them. Here is your hard axe. Your engraved belt. Here is the mail you wear, your thick, woolen shirt. I hold it to my face, breath you in, and you smell of salty sweat and the of resin pine, of oil, you smell of the grease and popping fat of the goose I shot for you, cooked for you still a fortnight ago (your shirt, like your beard, hides many things), the tang of metal, the stink of pipeweed, still the bitter bite of blood from Helm’s Deep.

Here is your rough-hewn bed, the one you slept in in Ered Luin, the one you built for yourself when you had nothing and carried with you in pieces to rebuild anew in this new home. Here is a chest you made, half-open and spilling with things and bits. There are…parchments? books? this is your hand, I know, even if I know not what it says.

[I am a Wood-Elf. What use have I for written words?]

Here is a drum, a flute, a viol. Oh, you will deny playing them, but I know you have music in your soul. Here is your throwing axe, your knives, the ones your cousins carried. Here is another book, more parchment, some quills, your Ori, you said, left these. They are your memories, not mine, and yet I am trapped in them. The door is shut. And I do not know what waits me on the other side.

Is it… _now?_

…Later?

[If so, how long?]

**Author's Note:**

> ...don't even get me started on The Hobbit. I'm mad as fuck that the 'hotter' the Dwarf or more important to story-line/more speaking lines, the straighter the hair. Apparently background characters can be portrayed as gross cultural stereotypes and given facial features and hair textures associated with Jewish or African heritage but if we want the audience to actually care about someone of this fictitious fantasy race they have to conform to modern ideas of white beauty. 
> 
> Internalized/systemic racism much? Just bleah.


End file.
